dead poem blog

i used to write

[notactivedeadpoems]

[notactivedeadpoems]

The Host - Mars

Become me,

Tear at my withering flesh,

Pull my blood as it winds through my veins,

Syringes for teeth.

My aura pales as your essence fills gaps,

I didn't know where there.

Your sickly reality bleeds the ink in my skin,

Ruining the art of my body.

Depriving my lungs of sweet air,

Because I can only breathe you.

[notactivedeadpoems]

DON’T TREAD ON ME

Yellow, gnarled, polyester blend.

Hung from your home like a trophy

Your boots demand liberty,

Stomping on sacred earth,

Stolen property.

Dead flags embroidered on your $40 shirts,

Tacky plaster on your vehicle glass.

You take pride in your beliefs,

In the wealth of your clean, white family,

Blurring the names of dead children who built this country.

Do you feel pride

When you tread on me?

[notactivedeadpoems]

i suppress my appetite

popping gum with my teeth

I hated menthol as a kid

mechanic mint hurting my head,

violating my lungs

but now,

becoming my father,

my mother,

my legacy

i pull on nicotine to give myself energy

I’m not the person 10 year old me wanted to be

but i am safe;

only breathing liquid amphetamine

but,

i hope one day i get sick off this nicotine

i hope my body rejects the idea of what i think was eventually gonna happen to me

science doesn’t have to prove it,

i feel the changes in my body

the grit in the floor starts speaking:

“when did you stop being happy?”

“when did you stop writing poetry?”

so i hope the grit keeps talking:

“when did you want to become me?”

[notactivedeadpoems]

my cheeks are not gaunt.

my skin is blemishless.

my stature is proud.

so why do you stare?

is it the way i part my hair?

the gait of my long legs,

the click of my boots,

the shift of my stomach when i laugh,

the gap in my teeth?

it’s not the hands i hold,

or the jokes you laugh at.

nor is it the blue of my eyes,

or the charisma of my smile,

is it the air in my thank yous

or the spark in my hellos

it’s not my name,

or the city i was born to,

it’s not the wholeness of my person,

but rather,

the noticeable scars of a person i was meant to be.

[notactivedeadpoems]

poetry, and everything it means to me,

a guided constant thought:

the world is cruel, in my life, my loss, my found, and what i have found, is words.

Words have found me cursing and crying to a god that failed me,

Words explain what i can’t with speech

because everything is so much better in my head.

in my grief, i gain vocabulary, cutthroat symphonies staining my paper with audacious strokes, and yet spoken like cajole melodies

in words find praise, the only thing i’ve ever wanted,

and ultimately, words write themselves, the guilt i feel because my words are not my own

would you believe me if i told you my words are not symphonies? that when i scratch my words into my parchment, i am thinking only of my trust,

because words will never fail me like the world did

and all i’ve ever wanted is to show the world my words.